


Rejoinder

by Calico



Series: Passing Notes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, First Time, M/M, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's reply</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_One._

_Two._

Sherlock looks away, as if slapped.

_Three._

After another horrible second of nothing, Sherlock pouts. It should be laughable, but the childish expression is cast in cold fury.

"Sorry," John says, and Sherlock favours him with a glare that says _too soon, too stupid_.

"This doesn't—" Sherlock starts. 

John realizes he’s holding his breath. The room is starting to swim around him; the only thing in focus is Sherlock’s face, terrifyingly blank.

"After all I—" Sherlock shoots John a poisonous look. "Leave me alone, both of you," he snaps, and stalks off into his bedroom.

John makes an abortive attempt at following, but Sherlock's door slams shut in his face. Dimly, he hears the crash of something being knocked over.

Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger, _fuck_. 

John stares at the closed door for several seconds, then scrubs a hand over his face and takes a couple of deep breaths. Part of him can't believe that just happened – but it did just happen, and there's nothing he can do to change it now.

He trudges up to bed in a haze of guilty exhaustion, unable to get Sherlock's agitated voice and livid expression out of his head. All of what came before - being kissed, being shoved and handled, Lestrade's practised mouth closing around him - that feels disjointed now, like remembering a film watched over someone else's shoulder.

John is knackered. The ceiling seems to shimmer as the low thrum of endorphins makes itself known once more. He closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind, tries to float off into warm darkness; and then he finds, in the flickery sinking sensation on the very edge of sleep, that actually he's feeling... pleased. Sherlock hadn't liked it. Hadn't seen it coming. _Had_ noticed—and had definitely cared.

.  


The next day, Sherlock is gone before John gets up – which, to be fair, is noon.

When John first opens his eyes he still feels exhausted, but as soon as he remembers what happened with Lestrade – a flash of heat and dirty-happy pleasure and then panic, terror - he finds he's bounding out of bed and hurrying on with the day in an effort not to think about it.

He works an afternoon session, and tries to accept the multitude of "You look tired, doctor" comments at face value and not as an indictment against his ability to practice medicine.

He heads home just after seven. As he walks down cheery, busy Baker Street he sees that their living room window is lit, and is struck by a sickening thrill of uncertainty.

Passing through the hallway where he'd... where Lestrade had... it's difficult and perversely exciting, and he climbs the stairs two at a time.

"Look," he says, as he walks into the room and sees Sherlock prowling the floor, one hand in his hair. He's going to have it out with him. Lay his cards on the table. He's got nothing to be ashamed of! "I know that—"

"You don't know anything," Sherlock interrupts, wheeling around and stalking towards him. "You—know—nothing."

"Oh," John says, certainly not knowing what to make of that.

"I like to know the rules," Sherlock says, "because if I don't know the rules, how can I decide which ones are irrelevant? You can't do that from a position of ignorance, John, you simply can't."

That makes a certain amount of sense: Sherlock liking to know the rules, all the better to cherry-pick them for his own conduct. The reason for Sherlock to be snarling this at John is... less obvious.

"And you made your rules clear! I broke all the unimportant ones, but I didn't even bend that one because it was the cardinal rule, the switch with bare wires, the roulette barrel that all the odds say must be loaded, and you—" He's making very little sense and speaking so fast as to be almost incomprehensible, but the sheer outrage in his voice prevents John from interrupting. "You let _the Inspector_ break that rule, for no discernible reason, with no prior motivation or regard for _my_ adherence to it!"

He draws breath, and John takes a flying leap at the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. "Sherlock."

Wrong choice of word. "And now you have the temerity to be confused about my objection," Sherlock sneers, and flounces off towards the sofa.

John sees red. "Firstly, there was never any rule about not sucking my cock," he snaps, pleased when Sherlock whips around to glare at him again. "I would have remembered making a stupid rule like that. Secondly, if you live in a world where prior motivation is necessary for every single sexual advance—no wonder you never get laid!"

Sherlock looks appalled. "Of course prior motivation is—we're not just _animals_ , John.”

John thinks about the raw pleasure of feeling Lestrade's mouth on his neck. "You'd be amazed."

Sherlock runs both hands through his hair, then pauses with his fists against his scalp. "I was _not_ imagining it. They were written all over you: don't touch, don't pry, don't get involved. And I—"

John can't help but laugh. "You're not seriously telling me you think you've behaved accordingly? You pry like other people breathe: constantly and unconsciously."

"I did what you wanted," Sherlock says loudly. "What you _signified_ that you wanted - you threw yourself into my life, you tore up the rest of the rulebook, but _you didn't want me to touch you_."

John thinks about the seemingly careless ways that Sherlock had touched him in the beginning; and how he'd stiffen up each time, keen not to broadcast his true thoughts. Cringing away from Sherlock's casual hand on the small of his back, going still when Sherlock caught hold of his wrist or clasped his shoulder.

"I can see why you'd think that," John says eventually, and Sherlock's glare intensifies.

"Why would I think anything else?"

Without really meaning to, John gives him a pointed smile. "Because you always get one little thing wrong?"

Sherlock's gaze rests on his throat again. "Apparently."

John thinks about what Sherlock is seeing: a mouth-mark left sixteen hours ago, smeared across his neck. Probably not noticeable to an ordinary person. Indelible to Sherlock.

John feels warm and light-headed, not in a particularly good way. He knows Sherlock doesn't like to share his toys.

"No," Sherlock agrees, and John wonders when he became so transparent. Ah yes: around about the moment they met.

He clears his throat. He has two options, as he sees it: attempt to nudge this forward, or employ every avoidance strategy in the book. "So now you know there wasn't—isn't a rule," he makes himself say.

"Yes."

"And?"

Sherlock frowns, gaze returning to John's neck. "He's here now."

It takes a great effort of will not to cover the mark, and John's hand twitches at his side. "I can't get rid of that," he says, swallowing.

"No. But—I can't either." Sherlock looks at him for a long moment and then says, his voice hoarse, "John, the broad brush-strokes are painted all over you, but the missing detail is driving me to distraction. I need to know everything that happened, _everything_."

John balks. "You want me to tell you—"

"Show me."

John doesn't know if he's supposed to be aroused or terrified by Sherlock's quiet, rough voice and unsmiling eyes. He is aroused, a little, just by the heavy weight of Sherlock's gaze, the knowledge that Sherlock is - if not on the same page as him - then at least reading in the same language.

"Y-you want me to demonstrate, on you, what he did?" John says, the arousal spiking as he can't help but imagine it, his mouth on Sherlock's neck, whispering, _And then he bit down here... and here..._

"No," Sherlock says, bringing John's thoughts up short. "On him."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock doesn't touch him in the taxi, and doesn't touch him as he charms his way past the concierge on Lestrade's building, but when they're in the dim corridor outside Lestrade's flat, as John raises his hand to knock, Sherlock grabs him by the wrists and crushes him against the wall.

John makes a noise of surprise that breaks off as Sherlock swoops in close and—stops, a breath away, Sherlock's eyes downcast to John's, Sherlock's lips parted.

"A bit not good?" Sherlock asks, the first hesitation in his voice that John has heard all evening.

John considers it as best he can with Sherlock's face right there. "No, ah—a bit not normal, but not _not good_."

"Okay," Sherlock says, and steps back, and raps on the door.

John's lips are tingling, insisting that that was a near miss, though to look at Sherlock now you would think he's knocking on any old door, with any old business.

Sherlock moves further along the corridor, leaving the place in front of the door for John to take.

John does so, beginning to sweat under his collar. Sherlock has clearly moved out of the way on purpose, to let John do the talking or—whatever. The fact that he doesn't have a plan ought to bother him. He decides that warm fluttery feeling is pure nerves: there, he's bothered. God. Is he ever.

There's a scuffing noise, then the click of the latch, and the door swings open before John can decide what to say.

Lestrade is wearing a black t-shirt with a faded slogan and threadbare jeans. Bare feet.

"John," Lestrade says, blinking.

The television's on in another room, distant sound effects crashing and blaring.

John feels ten times hotter, as if he might panic.

"Sherlock sent me," John says, unzipping his jacket. His shirt feels too tight, as well. The sight of Lestrade is affecting him more than he'd anticipated; caught in the whirlpool idea that Sherlock returned even some of his interest, he'd forgotten to prepare himself for looking Lestrade in the eye. Heat stirs inside him, a swift kick to banked coals. 

"Figuratively or literally?" Lestrade asks. 

John wets his lips. "Literally," he says, after a moment. His mouth is still dry.

Lestrade's half-smile makes warmth tingle through John’s chest. "So he noticed, then."

"Of course I noticed," Sherlock says, stepping out of the shadows. 

To his credit, Lestrade just raises his eyebrows, though now John's learned his face a little, he can see a twitching at his temple that belies his calm expression. 

"All right, boys,” Lestrade says, opening the door wider. “You'd better come in."

As they follow, John hears Sherlock mutter under his breath, "I'm not a boy," and wonders if Sherlock knows that his own tells are showing. 

Lestrade waves for them to hang their coats and follow him through to the kitchen. His flat is mostly grey and blue with bits of chrome and leather: like a bachelor pad designed in the late ‘90s and lived in ever since. The kitchen is pretty tidy, given that they've dropped by uninvited: cups clustered by the sink, magazines and a Kindle on the breakfast bar next to a couple of potted cacti. Everything else looks ordered, neat. 

John doesn't have time for more than that cursory glance before Sherlock's off on one: "Half a box of recycling, stacked: the Metro, one type of Dutch beer, one brand of overpriced pasta sauce. The jars are clean, so there's a dishwasher—although its stand-by light is off suggesting he doesn't run it often. Plants that don't need much attention. Evidence of some domestic cleaning service, weekly by the looks of things. No framed pictures, but photos of 'work nights out' stuck on the fridge with magnets bought by an elderly female relative. Expensive touches - Kindle, flat-screen TV, concierge, new car - but no ostentatious shows of wealth. Conclusion: mid-forties, public sector, mid-to-demanding management role, unsentimental, confident, single. Boring."

Lestrade glances at John. "Doesn't go into other people's houses much, does he?"

John tilts his head, fighting a fierce urge to laugh. "Not living ones, no."

Sherlock's already stalked through an adjoining doorway to the sitting room, and is huffing at the bookshelf. 

"Half of these haven't been read," he shouts back to them, over the persistent noises of the television. "Totally misleading."

Lestrade rests one hand on the fridge door handle and gives John a wry look. "I'm guessing this isn't a social call, then."

"Um," John says. "Actually, it is."

Lestrade’s face doesn’t change. "Really?”

John nods, and Lestrade exhales a soft laugh and opens the fridge.

“Then I definitely need another beer. Want one?"

John takes one for himself and one for Sherlock, despite the fact that he can't remember the last time he'd seen Sherlock drink beer. The glass bottles are nice and cold, though.

"So," Lestrade says, his low voice making John suddenly very aware that they're alone in the kitchen. "Should I be worrying about getting a broken nose?"

"Ah—no. Well. Never say never, but that's not why he - why _we_ \- uh, came here."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows, takes a swig of beer. "All right. So why did you?"

It’s a simple enough question; a pretty bloody inevitable one at that. John blows out a breath and launches into it, hoping the phrasing will work itself out. "He wants - if you're okay with it - he wants to, ah." 

Lestrade's watching closely, and John feels his cheeks grow hot. Great.

"Why, John…" Lestrade starts, grinning as he lifts his beer bottle to his mouth again.

John tries not to look at his lips, and makes himself continue. "He felt left out and wants to be—involved."

"Huh."

"If you like the idea."

"Do you?"

John spreads his hands, shrugs. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Mm. But." Lestrade sets his beer down on the side and walks towards John, his gaze fixed.

John swallows. "What?"

"Maybe you're just here because you've been told to be."

Standing next to him, Lestrade touches his elbow with two fingertips. John shivers. He opens his mouth to reply.

"Yeah, okay, I believe you," Lestrade says, his voice warm with amusement and something more, and then he jerks around as a worrying thump of a noise comes from the other room. "Great, what's he up to now?"

Freed from that steady gaze, John gives himself a little shake. _Get it together, come on._ "We should probably..."

Lestrade's already leading the way; John follows him into the sitting room. The scene they’ve interrupted is obvious: the TV – generous, flat-screen – is still blaring away to an impassive audience of an armchair, a big grey sofa, and a half-empty beer bottle abandoned on a coffee table. Sherlock's nowhere to be seen.

Lestrade grabs a remote control off the arm of the armchair, bringing the volume of the TV right down as he looks at John and winces. "What are the chances he's not already rifling through my sock drawer?"

"Not high. But socks are too obvious - he'll be picking the lock on your wardrobe by now."

"You have a lock on your wardrobe?"

"Padlock, actually," John says, grinning. "What? I live with Sherlock Holmes!"

Lestrade grins back, and John feels something inside himself melt. 

"Fair enough," Lestrade's saying, and then he's reading whatever's written all over John's face and his eyes half-close, pleased. "By the way," he says, tossing the remote aside and moving closer to him, until he's within reach but not reaching and John's coming out in goose-bumps, "how's the lip?"

John touches it reflexively with his tongue. "Healed," he says, as Lestrade's focus darts to his mouth. "It's an area that, um, heals fast."

As John's cursing his own inane voice, Sherlock appears in the doorway again, arms folded. "Did he say yes?"

"Sherlock," John sighs.

"What? You're clearly discussing it. You—"

"Yes, thank you, spare us the details," John says loudly. He doesn't need to hear it. He's self-conscious enough as it is.

Sherlock walks towards them, arms still folded. He grabs one of the beer bottles that John's forgotten he's holding, and takes an aggressive sip. "Well?" he asks Lestrade.

Lestrade gives Sherlock a look that John recognises from countless times watching them argue. "Well - that depends," he says slowly. His eyes seem very dark. "On what you've got in mind, exactly." 

Sherlock opens his mouth but no sound comes out. 

_That's a first_ , John thinks, even as he abandons his own beer to the coffee table and comes to Sherlock’s rescue. "A repeat performance, although, er," and he could kick himself for hesitating, but it's hard when they both turn to look at him like this, Jesus; "turnabout would definitely be fair play."

"I see," Lestrade says, his voice lower, softer. 

Sherlock scowls. "What is turnabout?"

"Ah," John starts, wetting his lips as he prepares to say, _Well he sucked me off yesterday, so it's only fair if I reciprocate, see?_

Lestrade stops him with a jerk of his chin. "Just c'mere, why don't you? Unless you're having second thoughts."

"No! No, I," John says, trailing off because Lestrade's hand has snuck onto his waist, just above where his shirt is tucked into his trousers: a soft touch that makes his breath catch. "Yes," John says, feeling as if his voice is coming from somewhere very far away. "Sure, let's just see what happens."

He risks a final glance at Sherlock. Sherlock is holding his beer bottle like it's the grip of a gun. His eyes are flashing; John can almost hear the staccato rattle of his thoughts, but he doesn't say anything, and when he sees John looking, he nods. 

It seems Lestrade was waiting for the nod as well. His hands close on John's waist, reeling him in, until they're face-to-face and close enough that John has to blink to focus. Lestrade looks composed - maybe a little breathless, eyes a bit glazed - but as he leans in and kisses John their bodies touch and John feels that he's hard, tightly contained inside those threadbare jeans.

John opens his mouth, tastes the careful flick of Lestrade’s tongue. It’s half tease, half dare: _Want this?_ Lestrade seems to be saying, against John’s parted lips. _Yes? Come on then._

John mumbles assent and steps closer, reaching for him in sudden hunger, seeking more pressure and not minding who knows it. His eyes close and everything about the kiss is emphasised; it turns choppy, ragged. More like yesterday – and how could it be only yesterday, really? – and not at all careful. Thankfully the TV isn’t completely muted, its low rumbles and snippets of conversation offsetting the noise of John’s breathing, which is getting loud enough to feel indecent. 

John’s hands have found clenched fistfuls of soft black t-shirt; he makes a conscious effort to relax them, stroking up Lestrade's back and over his shoulder blades. He’s broad and warm to the touch, feels good under John’s hands. Lestrade tugs John’s shirt loose, working his hands beneath it and jerking him closer, and John hears a noise escape his own throat as their hips cram together. He's—he's pretty hard too. 

He’s going to check in with Sherlock when they next draw back, of course, because that’s the point of this, to share it with Sherlock; but Lestrade’s not drawing back, and John can’t find the will to right now either. Kissing him deeply and feeling Lestrade’s hands flex against his skin—it takes him back to the hallway yesterday, frantic under the risk of going on too long or being too loud. In theory they can go slower now, take their time, but John’s sucking Lestrade’s tongue and sliding his hands down Lestrade’s arse, breathless with haste, and Lestrade responds to that with grunt and a shove.

“Fuck,” John bites off, and then Lestrade’s clasping the back of John’s neck, his fingertips digging into the base of John’s skull, bracing for—yes. That.

It’s driving John crazy that there’s a script. The idea that both know what comes next – John sucking his throat hard enough to leave a mark – and that Lestrade’s angling closer for it, urging him on; John can’t get enough of it. So when Lestrade breaks the kiss to mutter, “God. Go on then,” John forgets to look at Sherlock in his eagerness to fasten his mouth to Lestrade’s neck. 

John feels stubble catch his tongue as he licks, slow and firm; Lestrade’s jaw is deliciously clean-shaven but it’s beginning to come through close to the neckline of his t-shirt, under where his shirt collar would be. 

Lestrade’s throat vibrates in a faint approximation of a moan, and he tips his head back, tacit permission. John starts to grin, then finds he’s moaning himself as Lestrade’s hands slide back down to his arse, holding him firm. Lestrade grinds their cocks together, and stars flash behind John’s eyes as he opens his mouth wider and sucks hard.

“Mm,” Lestrade groans, and John can’t help it, he has to thrust against him, rocking in time to the pulse he can feel beneath his tongue. He is so, so hard.

Lestrade groans again, meeting the pressure and returning it, and John has a sudden vision of them finishing it like this: over before it starts without even bothering to undress. It would be a pretty poor show as far as Sherlock’s concerned—but then, maybe he’s already lost interest. 

_That_ spurs John to pull back, just for a moment; to tear himself away from Lestrade’s throat and make himself look. He’s more-than-half expecting Sherlock to have wandered off and be engrossed in the bookshelves again, but in fact he finds that is not the case. 

Sherlock looks like he’s drowning in the details. His eyes are almost black, and he’s got one hand planted across his hipbone as if physically holding himself back; the other is still wrapped around the beer bottle, knuckles angular.

Sherlock sees John looking and wets his lips. “You’re… too close together,” he rasps, a laughable imitation of his normal critical voice. “I can’t see. Enough.”

_He wants to see more._ Hearing him admit it does something staggering to John’s brain. He swallows hard, feeling his balls draw up against his body, and slowly moves one foot back to angle slightly away from Lestrade: the pair of them opening like a book for Sherlock to read. It means their cocks are no longer pressed together, the bulges jutting out instead, like something from a _Tom of Finland_ print. 

Sherlock’s gaze zips up and down between them, as if ravenous. 

“If you can’t see well enough,” Lestrade says, his voice sounding forced, “you could always come closer.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker. “No,” he says. “Ah—no. I—why are you licking your lips, John, it’s not—oh. The salt.”

John realizes he’s been sucking on his lower lip, and that Sherlock is right: it’s the faint salty tang of Lestrade’s neck, irresistible. He glances over; Lestrade has a mark on his skin now, just a faint one, low down next to his clavicle. John’s itching to enlarge it.

Lestrade is still watching Sherlock. “Do you want us to keep going?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says quickly, and John realizes he’s taken a step forwards after all. 

John catches a glitter of something in Lestrade’s eyes: possessiveness, or just naked excitement. Lestrade cups John’s head in both hands and kisses him again, firm but slow, his hands dictating the pace. He’s keeping his distance – _so Sherlock can see_ , John’s brain reminds him. _Fuck_ – but his tongue pushes deeply into John’s mouth, languid and dirty. John shivers and welcomes it, opening his mouth as much as Lestrade wants. His tongue slides against Lestrade’s, the slick lewdness of it making his cock strain. Yesterday they were trying not to be heard or seen, and now—now Lestrade is showing off.

The last qualms John had about coming here – seeking him out, pulling him back into their messed-up triangle – evaporate. Lestrade definitely wants this: not just John or just Sherlock, but both of them, in order or simultaneously. 

That’s… fine by John. He doesn’t know how involved Sherlock’s going to get, but even having him in the same room is making John weak at the knees. And this is just kissing and a little biting; nothing compared with what comes next. 

What comes next. Fuck, yes. John remembers the smoothness with which Lestrade folded to kneel in front of him yesterday, and the desire to return the favour hits him hard. He reaches down and cups Lestrade’s cock through the denim, moulding his hand to it, making it explicit to all three of them that it’s dominating his attention. 

He squeezes and Lestrade breaks the kiss, gasping. 

John darts forward and bites Lestrade’s jaw, hard, before he can stop himself, then pulls back to turn it into another kiss, gently pushing his tongue into Lestrade’s mouth as he shapes Lestrade’s cock behind his fly. 

He remembers again his dismay, yesterday, when Lestrade wouldn’t let him touch it. It had felt decidedly cruel at the time, but now it means he’s got the advantage: Lestrade is poised for him, hanging on every touch, accepting John’s mouth with the absent-minded eagerness of a man whose cock is thirty seconds from being in someone’s hand. 

John enjoys making him wait for the entirety of those thirty seconds, stroking until his fingers are tingling with the rasp of denim, then starts massaging the button of his fly slowly out of its hole. 

“Oh,” Lestrade mutters, as the tension gives and his cock strains forwards another inch. He presses against John’s hand, and stops panting; he’s holding his breath, John realises, grinning as he slows down even more to slide open the zip. One inch, another, achingly unhurried…

John glances around at Sherlock, and feels his grin widen; Sherlock’s come another step closer, gaze fixed on the movement of John’s hand, and his lower lip is trapped between his teeth. 

The idea that he’s making them _both_ wait is… potent.

John gets the zipper fully undone, revealing a triangle of dark distended underwear, Lestrade’s cock angled thick and straight, the head trapped under the elastic waistband of his boxers. 

John skims his fingertips back up, barely brushing against that pleasing bulge.

“Damn it,” Lestrade bites off, clutching John’s shoulder with one hand and scrubbing the other roughly through his hair. 

John tucks his forefinger under the elastic, draws it forwards enough that the head of his cock can slip out. Lestrade takes in a shuddering breath and holds it, fingertips digging into John’s shoulder. 

John was going to look at Sherlock again, and finds that he can’t. That heat so close to his palm; he has to touch it, and Lestrade’s breath rushes out as John gets his hand around his cock at last. 

It feels bloody good. Long, hard, and he can’t wait to have it in his mouth – but he will wait. This was worth the wait, and that will be too. John starts to move his hand, slow and feather-light. He’ll wait because this is the hottest thing he’s done in years, and because who knows when he’ll next be in the laser-beam of Sherlock’s full attention. 

John leans in to work on that mark on Lestrade’s neck again, to bring it up from the faintest pink into a bruise like he was sporting yesterday. Lestrade’s breathing stutters pleasingly as John’s teeth graze his neck, and he hunches his hips against John’s palm.

“ _Fuck_ —“

John spreads his left hand around the nape of Lestrade's neck, holding him steady as he sucks his throat, and pumps him ever-so-lightly with his right hand. Lestrade’s dick flexes and swells in the barely-there grip, and he grasps John’s shoulder hard.

"Oh bloody hell," Lestrade says, and rearranges his arm around John’s neck. " _Yes._ " 

John starts to smile, and then hears Lestrade add, under his breath, "You really don't have to ask permission," and realises the words weren't directed at him.

Another hand joins his on Lestrade's cock, and John draws back enough to look around, excitement sparking through him. Sherlock's right there, eyes determined and dark, his hand wrapped around Lestrade's cock next to John's, mimicking his slow movements. His jaw is set but his lips are ajar, like he's forgotten to close them, and John stares at the intriguing space between them, the wet glimpse of clenched white teeth. 

"Jesus. Fuck. Damn," Lestrade is muttering, leaning on John as if he needs help standing. John doesn't blame him. He can't take his eyes off Sherlock's face, the concentration there, his blown pupils and parted lips.

Sherlock sees him looking and jerks his chin at Lestrade. “Kiss him again.”

John obeys without thinking. Gives Lestrade a quick kiss at first, then slower, and then feels Sherlock’s hand tighten next to his; Lestrade gasps against John’s mouth. 

Sherlock makes a pleased noise, a noise that John recognizes as _Just as I expected_.

John stills his hand on Lestrade's cock and spreads his fingers when Sherlock’s hand bumps into his; Sherlock doesn't get it for a few long seconds, and then he interlaces his fingers with John's, and just like that they're stroking him in unison, Sherlock taking John's lead. 

Lestrade groans, loud, and John remembers: _You might be one of those silent types, but I know I'm bloody not._ It’s really fucking hot to hear, and John finds himself murmuring encouragement: "This okay? Not exactly what we discussed, but I get the feeling you’re not too bothered about deviating from the plan..."

"Mm," Lestrade agrees, arm tightening around John's neck. 

John licks his lips, but before he can open his mouth again Sherlock's adopted the same tone: "Yes, you like a bit of deviation, don't you, Inspector?" 

His lowered voice is so astonishingly sexy that it takes John a moment to realise that that was - crap. Painful. An excerpt from a bad porn script, albeit delivered with utmost sincerity. 

John sees that Lestrade's eyes are open again, glazed but incredulous, his eyebrows raised at Sherlock as well.

"What?" Sherlock demands, his cheeks turning pink. 

"Nothing," Lestrade says quickly, "and for Christ's sake, don't stop." He shivers as John resumes the slow, light stroke. "It's just - _ah_ \- people don't usually call me by my job title in bed."

Sherlock seems to have forgotten his hand is draped over John's. "What do they call you then?" he says, sounding genuinely bewildered and not a little bit annoyed. 

"Uh, well - Greg, mostly," Lestrade says. John tries it out in his head, but he thinks of him as Lestrade; it’s how he’s always thought of him. Not to mention: better for moaning.

"Why would they call you—oh, yes, I remember," Sherlock says, scowling. "Must I?"

"Do what you like," Lestrade says, the pitch of his voice wavering as John curls his palm against the head of Lestrade's cock in a desperate bid to recapture the mood. Lestrade gives him a grateful look, his eyes falling half-closed again as John repeats the swish of his palm, slow and firm. 

"Greg," Sherlock says experimentally, like dropping a sandbag.

John's head is swimming. This was going so well, until Sherlock put his oar in, and that's just crazy. They both want him even more than they want each other; why doesn't this feel better than the two of them alone? Is it because they already had each other? Or is three a crowd after all? 

It's not that Sherlock's not confident, because he is, he just… keeps getting it not quite right. It's like he's—

"Oh, fuck," Lestrade say suddenly, giving Sherlock a look more suited to an interrogation room. "That's what that face is. You're studying us. You’re not just trying to watch: you’re trying to _learn_.”

Oh. Oh, no. No, that’s impossible. John stares at Sherlock, expecting him to deny it, and feels his eyes widen as Sherlock just says, “And?”

Lestrade looks dazed; to be fair, John is still squeezing his cock, although Sherlock’s hand has stilled completely. 

“Any of it?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. 

“Have you done any of this before?” Lestrade repeats, voice gentle but his cock is rock hard against John’s palm.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, but Lestrade shakes his head.

“With a man,” he says, and irritation flashes through Sherlock’s eyes. 

“No.”

“But kissing,” John blurts, “you must have—“

“No one _must_ have anything,” Sherlock says, and then he draws in a shivery breath as Lestrade encloses his chin in two fingers, tilts his head. 

“This,” Lestrade says, kissing Sherlock softly enough that John feels his own lips tingle, “this is new?”

Lestrade draws back, and one look at Sherlock’s face provides the answer: eyes closed, lips parted, tiny creases between his eyebrows. 

“Well I,” Sherlock says faintly, “I know the theory of course.”

Fuck, John thinks, feeling like he’s put a foot badly wrong. Fuck! How can he have been so stupid? To have _assumed_ —

Lestrade just raises his eyebrows. “Aware of the theory. Well that’s a great lot of use,” he says, and nudges his mouth against Sherlock’s again. “There’s _never_ any difference between… theory… and practice.”

John watches, his heart inexplicably in his throat. The kiss looks careful, on Lestrade’s part; on Sherlock’s, sublime. It’s hot, of course it’s hot – look at them both! – but there’s a tenderness to it as well that John can’t quite get past. He can easily believe that Lestrade’s been waiting to do this for several years.

Sherlock makes a plaintive noise, and John feels Lestrade’s cock jump against his hand. He squeezes it and Lestrade inhales sharply, jerking back, his hand falling to cover John’s. John expects to be urged to stroke harder, faster, but Lestrade’s actually pushing him away, freeing his cock from John’s grip and Sherlock’s lax handhold, pulling back. 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “Don’t. Ah. Why are you stopping?”

“In light of this new information,” Lestrade says, gritting his teeth as he tucks himself back in his jeans, but lips twitching, “I think it’s only right that we pay a bit more attention to you.”

“That’s—that’s quite all right,” Sherlock says quickly, but his pupils are huge and his shoulders are rising and falling rapidly.

In the face of such evidence, John gives Sherlock’s words exactly the credence that Sherlock would give to someone else’s: almost none. He closes a hand around Sherlock’s wrist, feeling for resistance; Sherlock’s pulse is bounding, and his arm stiffens before going pliant. 

John strokes a thumb over his wrist. “You’d prefer we didn’t?”

The edges of Sherlock’s eyebrows twitch, like a cat flattening its ears against its head. “Ideally not,” he says.

“Well, if you insist,” Lestrade says, and John feels a flicker go through Sherlock’s hand, the movement as small and fast as a reflex. 

Lestrade’s words were chosen well, because Sherlock is nothing if not a stickler for details.

“Ah,” Sherlock says. “Well. I don’t _insist_.”

Lestrade pauses, letting Sherlock’s words have some space in the air, and then deliberately moves closer; and when Sherlock doesn’t react beyond a defensive gleam in his eyes, Lestrade kisses him properly and John’s head starts to swim. John swallows, watching the frown deepen on Sherlock’s forehead as he opens his mouth and lets Lestrade kiss him, hard. John can believe Lestrade has been waiting years to do this as well. 

For a moment the intensity of it makes John wonder if he should back off – although no force in the universe would make him look away – and then Lestrade kisses a haphazard path down Sherlock’s neck, and John finds himself face to face with Sherlock again, and, well, fuck. He can read the sensation of Lestrade’s mouth in Sherlock’s expression: his lips, resting apart; his eyes, glazed; his eyelids flickering as if trying to resist pain or distraction. 

Then Sherlock’s lips twitch, a glimpse of familiarity that makes it ten times more real, and John leans in before he can second-guess himself, grazing their mouths together. 

It’s like the head-to-toe sting of an electric shock, that first sensation of Sherlock’s lips parting against his. John presses forwards, aware of every inch of his body, needing more contact—and then wrenches back those urges in favour of gauging Sherlock’s reaction, because Jesus, he does not want to fuck this up now.

He tries to keep the kiss light, sifting the sensations for any slight flinch or hesitation. There’s nothing of the sort, though; just Sherlock’s soft damp lips giving way to the wet heat of his tongue, and for an unreal moment John wonders if he’s about to wake up.

“Mm,” Sherlock says, indistinct and low against John’s mouth, and John matches the noise and lifts a hand to close in his hair. A fistful of curls never felt so good. The kiss itself is soft and a little tentative – and familiar, he realises. The mechanics of it are a lot like kissing Lestrade, those same careful flicks of tongue—and then it hits John that of course it bloody is, because Lestrade’s just _taught_ him that. Sherlock’s learning on the job, and it’s almost imperceptible. Fuck.

_Fine_ , John thinks. _Teach you what I like then_. He presses closer, licking into Sherlock’s mouth, coaxing Sherlock’s tongue to play against his, and Sherlock makes a soft, almost broken noise that makes John so hard it’s almost painful.

John reaches down and adjusts himself in his trousers, hearing his own breathing stutter as he can’t resist a quick squeeze. 

“God,” he hears Lestrade say, muffled by Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock gasps. Jesus, John could listen to that all day—and then a hand sweeps through John’s hair, too confident to be Sherlock's (and fuck, when had he ever expected to think _that_?) and John breaks off from kissing Sherlock to be tugged towards Lestrade's mouth instead. 

Sherlock makes another of those soft accidental-sounding noises in his throat, but John's attention has snapped back to Lestrade, who's crowding close, one hand in John's hair, the other curved around the nape of Sherlock's neck. He's solid and warm, and John wants to sink his teeth into him; he settles for biting Lestrade's lower lip, and gets a hiss in return. 

"Like that," Sherlock says abruptly, but then cuts off, making John question whether he’d imagined him speaking at all. 

Lestrade makes an answering noise, though, humming against John's tongue, so he’d heard him too. And the idea of that, of Sherlock watching and commenting—what did John ever do to deserve this? 

A cautious hand closes on his hip and John’s attention jolts downward: Sherlock’s rubbing a pinch of John's shirt between thumb and forefinger. _He’s probably cataloguing a thousand details of thread-count and every floor it's ever been thrown onto_ , John thinks, and then he draws back enough to sneak a glance in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock's watching them kiss, his eyes wide and intense, and John gets a sense that he's not thinking about anything else whatsoever. 

Lestrade seems to feel the change, drawing back as well, and then grins and leans in to Sherlock again. His hand slips from John's hair and slides down his spine, the message loud and clear: _don't go anywhere_. 

John watches Sherlock's eyes slide closed, his mouth opening readily against Lestrade’s, and feels the warmth in his belly crank up another notch. He's wanted him for so long, and finding that he's like _this_ \- this heady combination of responsive and naïve – it's so good it almost makes him feel guilty. 

Not so much as to really slow him down, he acknowledges, leaning up with a smile to nibble on Sherlock's ear. Sherlock’s breathing is unsteady, and he’s got an arm around each of them, fingers closing mindlessly in John’s shirt as he leans into the kiss with Lestrade. When John sucks his earlobe, Sherlock flinches and gasps - _Weren't expecting that, were you?_ \- so John does it again, grinning.

Any further noise is captured by Lestrade's mouth, but John has a pleasant sense of having surprised him—and damn, but is that ever addictive. It seems that, stripped of his power to know what’s coming next, Sherlock has a tendency to just _react_. John doesn’t know whether it’s inexperience or if Sherlock’s struggling to deduce both their intentions at once, but it’s fucking hot, making John ache to surprise him again.

He sucks his way onwards, pausing to try his teeth on the angle of Sherlock’s jaw. He smooths his other hand greedily down Sherlock's back, enjoying the heat coming off his body. John feels dizzy with indecision: there's so much of him to touch, so many landmarks he's had his eye on. That unguarded carotid pulse, so often paraded around for random criminals to take a swing at—John covers it with his mouth and feels the rapid-fire beat against his tongue, and Sherlock clutches at him convulsively, fingers tightening in his shirt.

John sidles lower and finds the angled taunt of a collarbone, poking up above his shirt collar. He bites it and feels Sherlock's chest swell, and then Sherlock's hand closes in his hair, the faintest hint of a delicious tug. 

John moves on down, every nerve alive to what Sherlock’s hand might do next. He leans lower, vaguely aiming, lips searching the shirt until he feels the hard point of a nipple beneath the fabric. He slides his lips across it, fits his teeth around it, and then Sherlock's fist is closing tightly in his hair and John can't prevent a moan. It's partly the sensation, needles right across the back of his head—but mostly it’s the image, of Sherlock tugging on his hair, mashing John’s face against his chest.

He hears Lestrade’s soft laugh, and then, “Didn’t think you were the type to get a kick out of torture.”

John takes a few seconds to rub Sherlock’s nipple through the shirt with his tongue, enjoying Sherlock’s rasping breaths in response, before straightening again to meet Lestrade’s eye. “What?”

Lestrade’s hair is ruffled up and his mouth is extremely appealing. “Or are you just getting him back for how long he’s made you wait?”

John gives him an affronted grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah? _Look at him_.” 

John looks and finds Sherlock staring back at him. He looks stunned, and turned on, and tuned in, so tuned in, like John’s face contains fifty vital obfuscated clues. And he’s not talking, which more than anything tells John he’s been doing something right. 

John grins, giddy with it, and kisses Sherlock again just for the glorious sake of it, and then he feels Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder and his whole body goes tense. Sherlock might be putty in his hands, but Lestrade knows exactly what he’s doing; Lestrade’s pushing him down, and that’s—okay, that’s fine, that’s fucking more than fine, John’s on his knees in front of them in about three seconds flat. 

Looking up, he sees in Lestrade’s face that he didn’t necessarily expect him to cooperate that easily. John’s grin widens. He slides one palm up Sherlock’s leg, the other up Lestrade’s, relying on confidence to disguise the fact that his hands are trembling. He actually doesn’t know which of them he wants to suck more, and then Lestrade’s hands are on the front of Sherlock’s trousers, easing them open and dropping them to the floor, and John’s world narrows down into the almost-unbearable idea that this is _actually going to happen_.

He’s imagined sucking Sherlock off, of course, but not—like this. Not in someone else’s flat, not with someone else involved. Which just goes to show his appalling poverty of imagination, because this is pushing buttons John had forgotten he even had.

He’s not without the occasional flash of anxiety (what if he’s fucking up their friendship; what if Lestrade and Sherlock actually want to fuck each other without him) but it’s hardly a turn-up for the books, nagging fears around Sherlock, and presented with the bulge of his hard-on right there in his face it’s difficult to worry that much.

He sits on his heels and leans forwards, craning his head up, nuzzling the side of that bulge, shaping it with the flat of his tongue. 

“Oh bloody hell,” Sherlock says loudly, one hand dropping to John’s shoulder.

John grins and mouths the fabric, alert to every change in Sherlock’s voice, listening hard as he crooks his fingers around the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers and pushes them to Sherlock’s ankles. 

Released, Sherlock’s cock curves upwards, thick and flushed, foreskin already pulled back from its dark rounded head; it’s difficult for John not to try and take the whole thing straight away. The hot damp heat of it, hard against his cheek, is mesmerising – the basic proof that Sherlock is letting the desires of his body take precedence, just this once. John closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and runs his tongue up the underside.

The shaky hiss of Sherlock exhaling is music to his ears. 

“John,” Sherlock says faintly, fingers digging in at John’s shoulder, and then, clearly, “wait, no, don’t you stop either.”

Lestrade laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m just… getting a better view.” 

John feels Lestrade’s hand cup his chin, guiding him to turn his face upwards. It feels dirty as hell, with the weight of Sherlock’s cock against his lips, but he keeps his eyes closed, trusting Lestrade knows what he’s doing. He lets Lestrade coax him up onto his knees, feeling the way with his hands and mouth, until he’s kneeling with his head bowed, the floor hard beneath his knees, his lips resting against the tip of Sherlock’s cock. He keeps his eyes closed.

“That—“ Sherlock’s saying, but he breaks off as John parts his lips and lets his tongue brush along the head of Sherlock’s cock. “ _Ah_.”

“Mm,” Lestrade says, and John can hear him kissing Sherlock somewhere – his face, he thinks, maybe his neck, maybe the side of his mouth but he’s certainly not getting in the way of the noises Sherlock’s making, soft and shocked and disbelieving.

John opens his mouth further, letting Sherlock’s cock slide up into it – an inch, maybe two, no more than that before he seals his lips around him and starts to suck. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Sherlock gasps, and mutters something that sounds like, _Look at you._

John bobs his head a couple of times, for the thrill of more bitten-off noises, and then pulls back again to just the tip, mouthing it wetly, smoothing his tongue over it again and again. 

Sherlock’s gasps turn staccato. 

“Jesus, John,” Lestrade says, in an undertone. “You don’t want this to last, do you?”

Hot with the idea that they’re both watching, John keeps his eyes closed and gives as casual a shrug as he can manage, slowing his pace again in time to hear Lestrade’s strangled laugh. 

“Nice,” Lestrade says, closing his fingers in John’s hair and giving it a sharp twist. 

John grunts, shivering, and takes Sherlock deeper; it’s all he can do not to moan.

“He didn’t—dislike that,” Sherlock murmurs, the first whole words John’s heard from him in minutes. 

“No, he liked it,” Lestrade says, and John feels Sherlock’s hand settle on his head as well. Fingers closing, twisting experimentally; the sharp prickle of pain that makes heat pulse through John’s cock.

John grunts again, this time taking Sherlock’s cock right to the back of his mouth—and then Sherlock’s grip tightens and he tugs John back up by the hair.

“No—that’s good,” Sherlock says, keeping just the rounded head in John’s mouth, “like that,” and John swallows hard, the need for pressure on his own cock getting desperate.

“Well if you’ve worked out what you want,” he hears Lestrade say, “my work here is done.” 

For a moment John entertains the impossible idea that he’s about to leave, and then he feels a rush of movement nearby, and Lestrade’s kneeling next to him, leaning in, mouthing the base of Sherlock’s cock as John starts sucking frantically at the head.

“Christ,” Sherlock says again, louder, more urgent. His hips are rocking in little helpless jerks, moving the head of his cock restlessly between John’s lips, and it takes a phenomenal amount of will to keep his eyes closed. 

He does, though – because the pictures are good in his head, and being unable to see lets him drown in sensation. _Yeah, and you’d be done in five seconds flat if you were watching, let’s be honest now._

As John sucks, he becomes aware of more movement next to him. He reaches out and finds Lestrade’s hands smoothing up the backs of Sherlock’s legs; supporting him as he starts to tremble, but also, fuck. Moving with purpose. 

Sherlock’s cock jumps in his mouth as Lestrade’s fingers slide up between his thighs, and then Sherlock is babbling out rushed-together curses and getting impossibly hard against his tongue, and John tastes a fresh streak of salt.

That has _got_ to be—John moves his own hand around, feeling blindly until he comes across the back of Lestrade’s hand, cupping Sherlock’s arse, fingers curving into the warm cleft of it, his middle finger buried deep.

The feel of it makes John groan, deep in his throat; he explores the wet stretched place where Sherlock’s arse is clenching around Lestrade’s knuckle, and tries to slip his own fingertip in alongside. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Sherlock yelps, and John withdraws it again, quick with guilt. “No, I—“ Sherlock says, and drags in a deep breath. “Fuck. Do that again.”

Don’t have to tell him twice. John softens his mouth around Sherlock’s cock, taking it a little deeper, and sucks steadily as he pushes two fingertips into the hot tight grip of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock makes a series of small noises that make John’s cock go back to painfully hard; the thought of fucking him crosses his mind, as vivid as only a bad idea can be. 

“Oh, oh, no, don’t do that,” Sherlock starts, another low rush of words, and it takes John a moment to realize that Lestrade’s sliding his finger out. John feels another spike of guilt – Lestrade might have qualms about how they’re pushing him, could be having second thoughts – and then he realizes Lestrade’s not just moving his hand. He’s leaving John cupping Sherlock’s arse, John’s fingers sunk inside, whilst he’s repositioning completely: a slow shift that moves him around Sherlock to kneel behind him. 

“Sure about that?” Lestrade asks, and John feels the heat of his breath against his fingers; apparently Lestrade feels no qualms about pushing _at all_.

There is a moment’s silent pause. Then Sherlock says abruptly, “I need more data,“ and John tries hard not to gag as three things happen at once: Lestrade’s tongue swipes over Sherlock’s hole, John’s fingers push deep, and Sherlock’s hips saw forwards shoving his cock right to the back of John’s mouth.

“Jesus,” Sherlock’s gasping, brutally twisting on John’s hair, “Jesus, fuck— _repeat that_ ,” and John blinks his streaming eyes and tries to swallow his cock down as well as he can, as Lestrade licks around his fingers again and again. 

Sherlock doesn’t pull out, just nudges back and forth, his cock getting harder and harder. John does his best with it, but he really needs more control, so he winds up slipping his fingers back out and squeezing Sherlock’s arse with both hands. That means he can direct the angle of Sherlock’s hips, and also—

“ _Fucking Christ_ ,” Sherlock bites off, as Lestrade leans in and does something that apparently rocks his world.

—Clears the way.

Fuck, yes. John digs his fingers into the warm curves of Sherlock’s arse and moves his hands further apart, spreading Sherlock more for Lestrade, and can’t help but imagine that deep push of tongue against his own hole. Lestrade’s turning out bolder than he’d anticipated – not that he’d been thinking clearly about this at all, in the last twenty-four hours – and John finds himself hoping that there’ll be time to explore the depths of their compatibility further before whatever consequences they’re courting appear. 

He feels another spike of guilty apprehension – normal relations are going to be well and truly fucked after this – but it’s difficult to feel much self-reproach whilst Sherlock’s dick is cutting off most of his oxygen. Instead he feels… dizzy.

He sways slightly and has to lean back out of Sherlock’s grasp, finally opening his eyes. The room seems brighter than before; his pupils are probably pretty damn dilated right now.

Sherlock makes wounded noises as John pulls off him, glaring down at him with a dazed expression, his spit-shiny cock waving in John’s face.

“Sorry,” John says, squinting up at him and swallowing, touching his own throat with two fingers. “Just a—moment.”

Sherlock starts to protest, and then his eyes slit closed and he moans, soft and long. John starts to lean in again and then hesitates, sits back on his heels; he just wants to take a minute to enjoy the view. Because, fucking hell. He can hear the wet noises of Lestrade’s tongue and breath against Sherlock’s arse, obscenely loud under Sherlock’s increasingly harsh panting. Sherlock shifts and his cock bobs, hard and red; he looks so debauched it makes John’s heart sing. 

Lestrade’s hands are curved around him from behind, propping him upright, fingers digging in to the sparse flesh of his hips. Sherlock looks unbearably sleek, irresistible. John reaches forwards, brushing the backs of his fingers up the insides of Sherlock’s thighs. The skin is damp with sweat, and dark hairs spike up in the wake of John’s touch. 

“ _Ah—_ ” Sherlock groans, his voice shivering too. John can’t tell if it’s what he’s doing or what Lestrade’s doing, but between them they’ve got his full attention. 

John licks his lips and traces the heavy curve of Sherlock’s balls, watches them draw up between his legs. He brushes his tongue against the side of Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock convulses against him, one hand falling to John’s head. _God, he’s so close—too close for fucking, that’s for sure. Probably for the best._ John wouldn’t last thirty seconds, at this rate. 

John leans back again, stroking his fingers lightly up and down Sherlock’s inner thighs, watching the resultant shivers run through him. It’s addictive, the undulant arch of his back, his head tilting, blurry scowls washing over his face like ecstasy. 

_He could come from this_ , he thinks, _from my fingers and his mouth_ , at the very moment that Sherlock’s gaze locks onto his. 

“John,” he says, and John can see the effort in Sherlock’s eyes as he searches John’s face for clues, wetting his lips and frowning before blurting out, “what do _you_ want?”

_Don’t ask_. John looks down, choosing to divert the question by taking the head of Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth. He hears Sherlock gasp and feels him surge up and that’s it, surely, that’s enough to—

“John,” Sherlock says again, fingers fumbling at the side of John’s head, “John, tell me.”

The novelty of hearing him ask is almost John’s undoing; he pulls off Sherlock’s cock and looks up at him, giving him a warning headshake. “What I want is far too—“

“What?” Sherlock demands.

“Much,” John says, and Sherlock manages to look indignant despite everything. 

“I don’t—“ he starts, and then his eyes slam shut and his words shudder off into a moan as Lestrade does something John can’t see. 

John smirks. “You can’t even hold together a conversation, let alone anything more—complicated.” He can’t quite believe he’s saying this out loud. 

Sherlock opens his eyes again halfway; his voice sounds forced, and he looks like he’s on the edge. “I c-could.”

“You could try,” John allows, and then Lestrade’s standing up behind Sherlock and kissing the back of his neck, one hand fitting back between his legs, the other coming around to grasp his cock.

“He’s talking about _this_ ,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock’s eyes lose their focus and his head falls back; from the way Sherlock’s body jerks it’s clear that he’s pushed at least one finger into him, maybe more; and _that_ is enough, John barely has time to lean forwards and fit his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock before Sherlock’s groaning and coming, hard and fast, a series of salty pulses hitting the back of John’s mouth.

John squeezes his eyes shut and swallows as much as he can, bracing both hands on Sherlock’s hips, until the wet heat of it reduces to just a taste at the back of his mouth and Sherlock’s cock is beginning to soften against his tongue. 

He feels Sherlock sway hugely, and then draw back. 

John lets him go and opens his eyes to see Sherlock collapsed back against Lestrade in a dreamy sprawl, Lestrade’s arms holding him up. He’s still breathing hard.

John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and meets Lestrade’s eyes. There’s a moment of silent, mutual congratulation.

John clears his throat. “Bedroom?” 

Lestrade nods. 

John stands up, adjusting himself in his pants as his vision fills briefly with sparks. Head-rush from kneeling so long, but also – Jesus, he’s actually trembling. “Come on, then,” he says, heaving one of Sherlock’s arms around his shoulders.

“I can walk,” Sherlock says crossly, but his voice is faint and his eyes are closed.

“Of course you can,” Lestrade murmurs, exchanging another look with John as Sherlock kicks off the tangle of his shorts and trousers in the first couple of steps, heeling off his shoes in the process. Naked but for his shirt hanging open, he lets them bundle him through to the bedroom. 

John glances around as Lestrade kicks the door shut behind them. It’s messier, in here: the room strewn with clothes, the bed unmade, giving John the hot shock of thought that this is where Lestrade came back to yesterday night, to pass out or maybe—not sleep straight away.

They drape Sherlock over the bed and then turn to each other; John’s already breathing hard, just from the gut-punch realization that it’s their turn now. 

_Finally_ , John thinks, sparks whirling in the edge of his vision as he steps forwards, clashes against Lestrade in a deep, hungry kiss. Their hands work to tear off their shirts, and then they’re topless and rubbing against each other, fingernails skating down each other’s backs before John becomes dimly aware of Sherlock barking out a terse, hoarse command: “No— _stop_.”


	3. Chapter 3

John groans, deep and incredulous against Lestrade’s mouth, before pulling back to turn his head towards Sherlock—like always. 

Sherlock’s pulled himself further onto the bed, propped up on his elbows, his open shirt only serving to make the rest of him seem all the more naked. He’s glaring at them. 

John stares back at him. His brain feels foggy, over-stimulated, and he can’t catch his breath; he just wants to get off, now, please. "What do you want us to do?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says, as if it is the height of annoyance to be asked such a thing. "But I don't want you to be all the way over there, not paying any more attention to me."

John’s still staring, unable to find the words; it's Lestrade who answers, one hand sliding down John's back. "Thought you might want a minute to recover,” he says. 

"Thought wrong," Sherlock retorts, mimicking his low voice. 

Lestrade doesn’t seem fazed. "So we should...?"

"Keep doing whatever you're doing, but," and Sherlock waves vaguely at them, an awkward movement as he's still resting on his elbows, "not all the way over there."

That's twice he's said that. They're barely two feet from him. 

John finds his voice. "Sit up, then,” he says. “And take that off." The shirt. "And—yeah, like that," he says, because Sherlock is doing it, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, stripping off his shirt. 

John hesitates again, but a light pressure from Lestrade’s hand at the base of his back encourages him forwards. They close in on Sherlock until they’re almost on top of him, and then he’s reaching for them both, running his hands greedily up the fronts of their thighs. 

And of course he’s fucking ambidextrous: undoing buttons in a steady rhythm, reaching into their pants with equal smoothness, simultaneously easing out their cocks. His grip is far too confident for someone who’s never done this before. John stares down at his cock in Sherlock’s grasp, beginning to worry he might hyperventilate. Even the slide of his trousers down his legs feels full of silken purpose, even though that’s not actually Sherlock, it’s just gravity. 

“Good look on you,” Lestrade says roughly, to Sherlock. 

He’s right: Sherlock looks great with a dick in each hand, wearing only a calculating expression. 

“Yeah,” John says, making a pitiful attempt to sound as if the tightening of Sherlock’s fingers isn’t rocking his world… although in truth, he’s not sure why he bothers. 

Sherlock’s ignoring them again – their faces, at least. He gives two measured strokes, his focus switching from one hand to the other, and the part of John’s brain that’s not melting from finally having his dick touched starts protesting that he doesn’t want to be in an experiment right now. He doesn’t want to prove anything, to Sherlock or to himself. He just wants, desperately, to fuck.

Sherlock gives their cocks another long stroke, a little faster but softer, a tiny frown between his eyebrows. He looks as if he’s cataloguing far too many things for John’s comfort, and then he alters the stroking speed and pressure of his grip once more.

“Okay look,” John blurts out, his voice changing pitch as an unsatisfying heat ripples through him. “Sorry! But there’s a limit to how much of this I can stand.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock says, and Lestrade gives a hoarse laugh that cuts off as Sherlock frowns deeper and angles their cocks together and tries to take them both in his mouth at once. 

“Jesus Christ,” John gasps, grabbing Sherlock’s bare shoulder in a supreme effort not to thrust, as Lestrade’s breath punches out in an incredulous groan. 

Sherlock’s still ignoring them. He can’t take much at once, but he’s trying, tilting his head and exploring with his tongue, eyelashes fluttering closed as he starts to suck on each of them in turn. It’s a delicate, changeable suction that feels almost designed to frustrate, and John has a sudden horrible prediction of this going on for hours. 

“Yeah, I—no,” John manages to say, wrapping his hand around his own cock and stepping back out of Sherlock’s reach, leaving his trousers and pants in a heap by Sherlock’s feet. “I can’t.”

He expects a reply but instead Sherlock shifts to face Lestrade square on, his expression keen with purpose, both hands lifting to guide Lestrade’s cock into his mouth. For a moment he looks like he’s struggling, but he bears down on it anyway, his cheeks hollowing as Lestrade draws in a shaky breath.

John’s gaze goes heavy. He wraps his hand around his own cock, squeezing hard. This is better, actually—this is just porn. This is standing watching Sherlock attempt to give a hot guy a blowjob: John’s done it enough times in his imagination to feel almost comfortable right now. He starts stroking himself, his own grip wonderfully firm and reliable, all the hotter because his dick’s still wet from Sherlock’s tongue. 

Sherlock’s tongue, which is now sliding up and down Lestrade’s cock in glistening wet stripes. Lestrade’s hands are opening and closing in Sherlock’s hair, as if he’s fighting the urge to yank—John half-smiles and strokes himself harder, very happy with his choices. He almost doesn’t care if he’s blowing his only chance to come with Sherlock involved; an orgasm in the hand is worth two in Sherlock’s mouth right now. 

He’s already getting close, rocking forwards on his toes and biting his lower lip, when Sherlock breaks off and fixes him with an accusing stare. “Is that what you want?”

John gives a strangled laugh, stilling his hand with difficulty. Mind-reading ability intact again, apparently. “Close enough.” 

“What do you actually want?” Sherlock asks, as if seconds rather than minutes have passed since he last mentioned it. He’s still stroking Lestrade’s cock with one hand, wet lower lip brushing the head as he looks up at John; he’s got his composure back, and the sly tilt to his lips ignites a need in John to knock him off balance. 

“Uh,” John says, biting down on the answer to that question, and glances up. Lestrade’s staring at John with undisguised hunger, like a man who’s being driven half-mad. It’s not helpful. John swallows hard, refocusing on Sherlock. “What I want is—not wise.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “But is it interesting?”

John hesitates again, and then shakes his head. “I’m just going to watch.” 

The look in Sherlock’s eyes is sharp and knowing, but he shrugs and applies himself again, his tongue sliding lewdly around the head of Lestrade’s cock. Lestrade makes a broken noise, visibly holding back as Sherlock mouths him, lapping and trailing his tongue, clearly not trying to get him off. Just… exploring. Enjoying himself. Showing off. Teasing.

“He learnt this from you,” Lestrade says eventually, with a dazed glare at John. “You couldn’t have just—oh, fuck.“

As if on cue, Sherlock’s trying to take him deep. John’s eyes narrow and he jerks himself faster, his breath coming in ragged pants. Even if this puts a stop to his involvement, he needs to come. Soon. Ideally _now_ , and watching Lestrade bury his fingers in Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock struggles to deep throat him should easily be enough to get him off. He focuses on the stretch of Sherlock’s lips, wet and pink and eager, and his head starts spinning in a beautiful familiar way. _God, yes, just another couple of—_

Sherlock recoils with a loud gasp, pulling right off and turning to scowl at John again. “Why can’t I take it all?“ he demands; his eyes are watering and his voice is hoarse, accusing. “This didn’t happen to you.”

“Practice,” John says, gritting his teeth and stroking harder—but the moment’s fading inexorably, and he’s not coming after all, he’s just standing here sweaty and unfulfilled, gripping his own cock. 

“Practice,” Sherlock says scornfully. “I hate practice, it’s dull by default. There must be a short-cut. You have to teach me.” 

John’s already shaking his head. “No way,” he says, even though that may be the best thing he’s heard all year, and then when Sherlock looks outraged he amends, “okay, look, yes, of course I will – but another time, please, not right now.”

Sherlock huffs but goes back to licking Lestrade’s cock, pausing only momentarily to sneer at John, “Boring.”

John pauses. 

He’s not seeing red exactly, but some veil of propriety seems to be falling away. 

“Okay,” he says, his voice mild. 

He kneels by Sherlock’s feet, and even the rub of the carpet against his bare knees feels dirty and sexy and moreish. 

“You want a lesson? I can teach you a lesson.”

He hears Lestrade’s unsteady laugh, but Sherlock brightens. “Good,” he says briskly. “Finally!”

The last of John’s reservations melt away. He leans up, wraps a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and hauls him down onto the floor as well – kissing the surprised look off his face, because he can, before arranging him roughly into a kneeling position.

“First tip,” he says, “you’ll find it easier from down here.”

Sherlock straightens his shoulders and gives John a little nod, looking wary and ruffled but undeniably interested. 

“Second tip,” John says softly, “concentrate.”

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to protest, but John holds up a finger to stop him.

“Third tip,” he says, wondering if he’s going to get away with this one but deciding it’s worth it just to watch Sherlock’s face, “you’ve got to get acclimatised to having a cock in your mouth.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but he looks insulted rather than annoyed. “I have.”

John smiles. “Not enough,” he says, turning Sherlock by the chin to face Lestrade’s cock again. “Now suck him, and don’t get distracted by me.”

Sherlock leans in with an obedience that makes John pause for a moment and marvel at the whole situation: Sherlock taking just the head back into his mouth and sucking on it, a painfully earnest look on his face.

Lestrade makes a soft noise, seeking out John with his gaze. His expression is still hazy, but the question in his eyes comes through loud and clear: _Are you going to try and—?_

John nods. 

Lestrade grins and jerks his head at the bedside table. It has two drawers, the bottom one a half-inch open. 

_Thanks_ , John mouths, but Lestrade’s eyes are already closing as Sherlock starts bobbing his head.

John sits back on his heels for a moment, admiring them, before focusing on the line of Sherlock’s neck. His head’s tilted, and his throat looks taut and smooth. There’s a bite mark just below his ear, a soft pink; neither of them have risked pissing him off with real aggression yet. John leans in, laying a few light kisses over the mark to see what happens.

“Don’t stop,” he breathes against Sherlock’s neck, for good measure. 

Sherlock does stop, for a second, and then he shifts, tilting his head further, giving John more access without taking his mouth off Lestrade. 

Looking down, John can see that Sherlock’s cock is a straight fat line between his thighs: not fully hard again, but not soft either. John tells himself it’s probably residual, but can’t help but think that if he were as sex-starved as Sherlock, he might not have much of a refractory period either.

He kisses his way down Sherlock’s shoulders, across his back, and then replaces his mouth with his fingertips to stroke patterns down Sherlock’s spine as his lips work their way back up to his ear. 

“That’s good,” he says, as he gets a close-up of the sight that had almost pushed him over the edge earlier: Sherlock curling his fingers around the base of Lestrade’s cock and taking the rest in his mouth. 

Watching for Sherlock’s reaction, John moves his hand on down. He sees Sherlock’s eyes flick open and then squeeze shut again as John cups his arse, but he doesn’t pull away from Lestrade. 

Encouraged, John slides his fingertips against Sherlock’s hole. It’s wet and a little open – though it squeezes down hard against his finger as he tries to push in – and Sherlock makes a mumbled noise and starts to draw back. 

“He’s having difficulty concentrating,” Lestrade says quickly, his tone apologetic. “I mean – anyone would.”

Again, they’re well-chosen words. Sherlock’s face tightens and he takes Lestrade’s cock deeper once more, as if that were what he’d planned all along. His lips are starting to look pinker than normal, and he’s frowning as he sucks, varying degrees of resolve and effort clear on his face. John wants to kiss him. 

Later. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” John says. “He’s trying.” He glances up at Lestrade and cocks his head to one side.

Lestrade’s eyes are dark and knowing. “Let me just…” he says. 

Gently, Lestrade pushes Sherlock away and sits on the bed himself. He strips off his jeans and shorts, then beckons Sherlock back to kneel between his legs. “That’s better,” he says, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock ducks impatiently under his hands, hurrying to engulf his cock again, and Lestrade looks down at him for several wondering seconds before jerking his focus back to John.

 _Go on_ , Lestrade mouths. 

John moves quietly on his hands and knees over to the bedside table. He eases open the bottom drawer and then smiles at its contents. 

John extracts a crumpled tube of KY as quietly as he can and crawls back to Sherlock, who doesn’t seem to have noticed his absence. John can’t blame him: he looks fully occupied, sitting on his heels with his head bowed in Lestrade’s lap, and Lestrade’s hands over his ears will hardly have done much for his peripheral awareness. 

As John approaches, Lestrade moves his hands back up into Sherlock’s hair. 

“That’s good,” John says, close to Sherlock’s ear. The wet noises he’s making are ridiculously hot. “Now take more of it in, slowly – you can put your hands on his thighs to hold him down. Breathe through your nose. Don’t go too fast. Keep sucking.” 

It’s nothing new, but it’s still a thrill to watch Sherlock trying to follow all his instructions at once. 

It’s even more of a thrill to slick up his fingers and reach down again to rest them against his arse; the noises stop and Sherlock stills, his fingers digging in to Lestrade’s thighs. 

John makes his voice as soothing as possible. “No, no – remember?” he says. “You’re supposed to be ignoring me. Focus on him.”

He waits. After several long seconds, Sherlock starts bobbing his head again; John bites the inside of his cheek and waits even longer before lining up two fingers and starting to press. He feels another jolt go through Sherlock’s body as John’s fingertips push into his arse, but to his credit Sherlock keeps going, lips moving around Lestrade’s cock in a luscious, rhythmic slide. 

_God_ , John thinks, staring at his fingers buried in Sherlock’s arse. His own cock is hard as hell. He feels like he’s been moving in a trance, trying to get to this point without thinking too hard about it, and suddenly it’s real, he’s doing this – _they’re_ doing this. 

“Fuck,” Lestrade says, meeting John’s eye; he seems to have come to the same conclusion. 

Sherlock is rocking, just a little, on his fingers. 

John swallows a groan at the sight, and manages to turn it into a mumbled, “Good, Sherlock. Impressive.”

Sherlock makes a pleased noise that’s almost too much for John, and moves his head in a confident little twist that has Lestrade hissing through his teeth. He takes a third finger without the flinch of before, and John finds he’s the one breathing hard: he wants to be inside him so damn much.

John struggles to focus. “Sit up,” he says brusquely, and Sherlock rises to his knees, his hands on the bed, Lestrade’s cock still deep in his mouth. John kneels up next to him, his cock aching but fuck is it worth it to be watching Sherlock make his sixth failed attempt at deep-throating while John’s fingers are moving in his arse.

Sherlock gags, pulls off, changes angle and sinks down on him again. 

Without removing his fingers from Sherlock, John squeezes some more lube into his palm and then scoops it up in his other hand and smears it onto his cock. It’s cold, thank God—he’s suddenly very close indeed, his cock flexing at his own perfunctory touch. 

He gets even closer as he moves in behind Sherlock, siding out his fingers at the last moment. He presses his cock against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and feels him shiver, pressing back. Sherlock’s warm and tense to the touch, but cocking his hips for John and edging his knees further apart, all the while rocking back and forth in those tiny inviting jerks. 

John runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, then gives in to temptation and reaches around, sliding his palms over the sweaty slope of Sherlock’s clenched stomach, down towards his cock. He’s trying not to care, but he can’t help but hope that Sherlock’s not gone soft since he last let himself check. He holds his breath as he reaches lower, and then the hot length of Sherlock’s erection nudges the side of John’s hand and John exhales hard, gritting his teeth and grinding his dick against Sherlock’s arse before he can help it. 

Sherlock makes an enthusiastic noise, muffled by Lestrade’s cock but definitely, definitely aimed at John.

 _You want me inside you_ , John thinks, and the meaning of that has sudden, startling force. 

He closes his hand around his own cock and starts rubbing the head slowly against the entrance to Sherlock’s body, spreading the lube and watching for the gleam of pink skin. And he’s—he is thinking about condoms, he really is, but he’s clean and Sherlock’s almost a virgin, definitely to things like this, and… And then there’s this fierce dark need to _have_ him, skin-to-skin, feeling every inch as he slides inside. John doesn’t normally think of himself as possessive but it’s _Sherlock_ , for God’s sake, and for all he’s enjoying sharing him right now – he can’t deny that he wants something that’s just between them. 

_Which is a piss-poor excuse_ , he tells himself, but it’s amazing how his professional voice can get side-lined when the rest of his body wants something. _The weaknesses of John Watson: triple espressos, chocolate éclairs, and barebacking with Sherlock Holmes._

He looks up to see if Lestrade’s condemning or condoning him, but Lestrade’s not even looking: he’s arching back, mouth open, one hand behind himself, the other clenched in Sherlock’s hair. He looks like he’s getting close, and that’s it: John can’t wait a moment longer. 

He aims his cock against Sherlock’s arse with one hand and anchors the other on Sherlock’s hip, trying despite himself not to push too hard. Just leaning against that firm heat more and more heavily, rubbing in tiny circles, until he feels the muscular resistance give way just enough to let the head of his cock squeeze inside. 

Sherlock jerks up with a gasp, abandoning Lestrade and twisting around to look at John, both hands braced on Lestrade’s thighs, mouth hanging open. He is incredibly tight. John stills, the now-familiar paranoia blossoming inside him—but for all that Sherlock’s gaze is intense, almost disbelieving, as he searches John’s face, nothing in his expression says _stop_. 

John tests him with another inch, watching closely, and finds he’s wondering if this is what it feels like to be Sherlock. Sherlock’s face is an open book; John can read every nuance. _That hurts… that doesn’t. Slower. There. God, John. Give me the rest. Fuck me, John. Now._

John realises he’s sliding deeper with every second he stares into Sherlock’s eyes. He jolts back to himself, and finds he’s given him a lot more than an inch: he’s sunk deep in Sherlock’s arse, almost all the way, silken heat tightening around his cock from all sides.

Sherlock wets his lips. “Am I allowed to stop ignoring you now?”

“Yeah,” John says, and pushes the rest of the way in, enjoying the flicker of impact across Sherlock’s face. “You can pay attention to this bit.”

Sherlock’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “What about him?”

John looks at Lestrade, who’s still breathing hard, one knuckle clamped to his mouth as he stares at where the curve of Sherlock’s arse is pushed against the flat of John’s pelvis. 

“Yeah, uh, I’m—I’m fine,” Lestrade says, without looking up, and the dirty wryness in his voice makes John grin and shiver at the same time. 

“’Kay,” John says, closing both hands on Sherlock’s hips and wetting his lips. He can’t help but look himself. He starts to move, a gentle slow slide out and then a firmer one back in. Again. Again. Sherlock’s breath is coming in rough sighs, and he’s tilting his hips, nudging back to meet him on every thrust. It feels almost too good to be real. 

John pulls all the way out and stares down, his cock thick and hard and shiny pink against Sherlock’s pale skin. It’s turning him on like crazy that there’s nothing between them, and the sight of it makes him harder than ever. He swallows and starts working his cockhead in and out of Sherlock’s hole, watching the slow gleaming stretch before it pops smoothly in, feeling the tight grip of his arse resist and then relent for him every single time.

“I think,“ Sherlock says suddenly, his voice raw, “I need, um…” and John gets a sudden idea of how this could feel to Sherlock: like withholding the key to a case, teasing him with irrelevancies on the brink of a discovery. 

John pulls right out, resting the head of his cock against Sherlock’s hole, and then sheaths himself in one long slow push. It feels fantastic even before Sherlock drops his face into Lestrade’s lap with a loud groan. 

“…Or you could do that,” Lestrade says, his flat tone belying the way that John can see his cock now, hard and flushed, curving up next to Sherlock’s cheek.

John thrusts again, and then again, giving him a bit more force and watching how the movement jerks Sherlock’s body in Lestrade’s lap. Sherlock turns his head, and now his lips are against the base of Lestrade’s cock, pink and parted. John swallows, greed flourishing all at once: he wants to see it, wants to watch Sherlock’s mouth open again, those gorgeous lips taking Lestrade’s cock while John fucks him bareback, hard.

“Go on,” he says, low-voiced but he swears they both hear him; Sherlock licks his lips, breathing out hard through his mouth, and Lestrade leans back a bit, giving him room. 

The next flick of Sherlock’s tongue is against the base of Lestrade’s cock, and John hears himself make an appreciative noise. He’s slowed right down, buried deep but sliding only the smallest fraction in and out of Sherlock’s body, enough to keep frustration at bay but not as much as he wants because right now—he wants this more. 

“Go on,” he says again, and this time Lestrade echoes him in a soft, coaxing whisper.

Sherlock licks his lips again. “I don’t—I—I can’t concentrate.”

“Try,” John says, and he means it as a suggestion but it sounds like begging. 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, and just like that he looks like he’s got the advantage again. Case closed. He runs his open mouth up the shaft of Lestrade’s cock and then pauses at the top, slanting a glance back at John. 

“ _This_ is what you want,” he says, as smug as John has ever heard him, and it’s all John can do to stare at his lips and say,

“Yes.”

”Fucking hell,” Lestrade says, his gaze flicking between Sherlock’s mouth and John’s face, and then Sherlock’s sucking him in and shifting his arse on John’s cock, and John shoves into him, hard and groaning. 

Sherlock grunts, wrapping one arm around Lestrade’s waist and steadying the other across Lestrade’s thighs, but keeps his mouth where it is, forging down. He’s taking more than before, and it must be hitting the back of his mouth, but John’s lost the ability to slow down: he’s just moving, short fast slides into Sherlock’s arse that end in a hard jolt of pleasure every time. 

Part of him can’t believe Sherlock’s not choking, but he’s actually doing pretty well: spreading his knees and bracing against John’s thrusts, gripping Lestrade’s hips and letting John’s rhythm dictate how much he takes of Lestrade’s cock each time. 

John starts watching that, but it gets too hot too fast. He’s going to come if he thinks too hard about what Lestrade is feeling, what _Sherlock_ is feeling—he closes his eyes for a second and lets the near-miss wash over him, a scalding liquid rush. 

He can feel Sherlock’s skin getting sweaty under his hands and concentrates on that, gripping harder, sliding into him faster, and then he hears Lestrade say, “Fuck,” almost plaintive, and has to open his eyes. 

In an instant he’s back on the edge. He doesn’t know where to look – at the long lines of Sherlock’s body arching between them, at Sherlock’s mouth full of cock, or at his own cock, stretching Sherlock’s arse, every slick thrust reminding him: _mine, mine, mine_. 

“God, fuck, _God_ ,” Lestrade’s saying, his voice cracking, and John’s gaze snaps to him: he’s practically growling, muscles clenched as he cups Sherlock’s head in both hands and hunches up under him, steadily fucking his mouth. John leans forwards, his stomach sliding against Sherlock’s lower back, jostling to get closer. He reaches for Lestrade’s shoulder and tugs him down to meet his mouth, and Lestrade kisses back for all of two seconds before swearing loudly and letting go.

John’s eyes open in time to see Lestrade wrap a hand around the base of his cock and stroke himself a couple of frantic times, and then he’s coming in Sherlock’s mouth, his whole body jerking with it, his breath rushing in heartfelt groans.

“Fuck,” John breathes, watching Sherlock’s throat move, his lips shining wet as he struggles to swallow it all. He reaches around and finds Sherlock’s hand’s already there, stroking himself hard, and that is it, John has to come, _now_.

He leans forwards heavily so Lestrade’s thighs are taking most of Sherlock’s weight, and pounds him. Sherlock groans and seems to melt between them, burying his face in Lestrade’s lap and spreading his legs even more, and _dear God_ that is hot. 

To be taking an entire evening of frustration out on him, all at once, fucking him hard enough that he can hear Sherlock’s breath grunting out on every thrust—it pushes buttons that John would normally be ashamed to have, but right now he’s losing himself in it, shoving into the tight heat of Sherlock’s arse until he’s positive he’s about to come, then grabbing Sherlock by the hair and hauling him back against his chest for the last few final shuddering thrusts. 

_Mine_ , he thinks savagely, but out loud he’s just moaning, cut-off shaky noises that he can’t control. He knows it’s wrong but it does feel better, shooting inside him, knowing he’ll feel it later—

“You’re—“ Sherlock gasps out, flinging his head back on John’s shoulder, his own arm pumping away. He’s clenching down hard, and John reaches around blindly and finds Sherlock’s fist moving fast over his cock, the spaces between his fingers already hot and slippery with come.

That sensation, on top of everything else, makes John so dizzy that for a moment he thinks he might pass out. 

“Yes,” Sherlock’s hissing, “yes, _yes_ ,” and John presses his mouth to the side of Sherlock’s neck and tries to steer Sherlock towards the bed rather than tumbling sideways onto the floor. 

It takes a good thirty seconds before John’s recovered enough to string a sentence together, by which time his body is reminding him that carpet burn is for teenagers and morons. 

“Get up,” he grunts, pulling out with a wince and trying ineffectually to push Sherlock off him and onto the bed. “My knees are killing.”

“Is that all? My legs have gone numb,” Lestrade says; Sherlock is still draped over him in an ungainly sprawl. 

They both look at Sherlock, who raises his head from Lestrade’s stomach and gives the ceiling a bleary grin. “I feel wonderful,” he declares. “We should do it again.”

Lestrade makes a strangled noise that John thinks is a laugh, and moves aside as John manhandles Sherlock up onto the bed.

Sherlock looks around, his grin transforming into a moue of distaste. “But we’ve left DNA everywhere. This is how idiots get caught, you know!”

This time the noise Lestrade makes is definitely a laugh. “Then you’d best try not to break any laws ‘til I’ve found a cloth.”

John crawls onto the bed after them and rolls flat on his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. His whole body is buzzing with pleasurable warmth, and yet he’s also got a funny sensation of being in the aftermath of something he’d wanted for ages, and not sure how he got here. 

The last couple of hours already feel like a blur. A good blur, and fantastic blur, that he’ll certainly enjoy going back over tomorrow—but it’s starting to niggle again that he has no idea what comes next.

The bed bounces and John peers out from under his arm: Sherlock’s jumped clear and is wandering off, naked but scooping up his shirt as he walks. Out the bedroom door, and disappearing into the corridor, without a single word. 

A familiar tension springs up under John’s skin, and then Lestrade mutters next to him, “How he can walk right now is anyone’s guess.”

John snorts. “He’s just insulting our prowess.” 

“Doesn’t have the decency to pass out after a threesome like a normal human being,” Lestrade agrees, pulling a box of tissues from a drawer in the bedside table. “That’s always the thing with Sherlock – no manners.”

Grinning, John accepts the tissues without comment and cleans himself up. He hears the low thrum of a shower starting up, a couple of doors away. “Ah,” he says, and points in the direction of the noise. 

Lestrade rubs his nose. “Actually that probably is quite good manners, considering,” he says, and John flushes self-consciously and clears his throat before laughing again. 

Lestrade grins and gets back into bed – leaving a polite space between them. John doesn’t know if that’s a hint or saving a space for Sherlock if he deigns to return. John glances at the clock: nearly ten pm. Time has flown. They should probably be going.

He doesn’t want to. 

Lestrade’s tugging the duvet up over himself and pillowing an arm under his head, looking up at the ceiling. He doesn’t seem opposed to John staying, for now at least. John shifts to mirror him, and then gives an involuntary, appreciative sigh because under the duvet this is a supremely comfortable bed. 

John relaxes into it, starting to close his eyes, and then pauses. He’s not one for pillow talk, but if he actually falls asleep without saying anything at all then it’s going to be awkward later. 

“That was, er, all right,” he says.

Lestrade makes a noise that might be a chuckle, might be a stifled yawn. “That’s one way of describing it.”

“Mm. Might be a bit weird now.”

“Could be.”

“And…” John pauses, trying to phrase this properly, but maybe there isn’t a good way to say it. He turns his head, opening one eye to gauge Lestrade’s reaction. “It’s probably up to Sherlock, what happens next.”

Lestrade just smirks, eyes closed. “When isn’t it?”

“But for what it’s worth,” John says, watching the line of Lestrade’s profile, “I’d, uh… I’d do that again.”

“Mm,” Lestrade says, and yawns against a closed fist. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Me too.” 

“Good,” John says, before he can help it. 

“Ball’s in his court, though,” Lestrade adds, as if John hadn’t spoken. “Again.”

“Back to square one,” John agrees, and then the door’s bursting open and Sherlock’s striding back in, wearing a large grey towel in the manner of a bed sheet. His hair’s spiked dark with water, and his mouth curves into a tight smile as his gaze falls on the space left between them. 

Lestrade smirks at John across the rumpled bed. “Well. I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

.  
.  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know three stories in two years is a pretty poor record, but I hope it's been worth it in the end. Eternal thanks to puppethorse for beta and pompoms!
> 
> ETA: I have a couple of other stories in the pipeline at the moment. To be notified when they're posted, either subscribe to this account or follow [my tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/ukcalico).


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